


The Stone's Gift

by SilverSkiesAtMidnight



Series: The Family Under the Mountain [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Baby Dwarves Carved From Stone, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Dwarf Lore as invented by me, Dwarf Magic, Dwobbits, Established Relationship, Family Fluff, M/M, Mentioned Thorin's Company, Mild Angst, POV Thorin, Tenderness and Devotion, The dwarven equivalent of cabbage patch hobbits, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, kind of thematically unplanned pregnancy but no actual pregnancy, stone magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSkiesAtMidnight/pseuds/SilverSkiesAtMidnight
Summary: It is probably hours before the peace is shattered by the sound of a tool dropped elsewhere in the hall, the metallic sound ringing and echoing against the stone walls. In an instant, the haze around him breaks, and the motion of his hand stutters to a stop. He blinks repeatedly, his eyes clearing, and the stonework in front of him begins to truly come into focus for the first time tonight.Let it never be said that Thorin Oakenshield is a stupid man.For all that it has taken him this long to understand, there is no denying the evidence that now sits before his eyes, and there is no arguing with the truth of the stone that rests atop the workbench, features without detail but clear in form.Thechildthat sits before him, waiting to be completed.Oh,Thorin thinks.Oh.Or: your classic "hobbits can grow children in their gardens" trope, only this time it's dwarves who can carve children out of stone.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: The Family Under the Mountain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752382
Comments: 30
Kudos: 510





	The Stone's Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [electroniccollectiondonut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/electroniccollectiondonut/works) for betaing this fic!! They were a great help in ironing out some of the kinks and reassuring me that this fic isn't as bad as it seems after rereading it way too many times. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

Let it never be said that Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and one of the fourteen legendary saviors of Erebor, is a stupid man. He is in many senses a very intelligent one, highly skilled in manners of strategy and politics.

That being said, even the king of Erebor is not immune to being somewhat obtuse. 

The best relationships are always between those who complement each other, who fill in each other’s gaps, and all this is a very polite way of saying that had _Bilbo_ known some of the more obscure dwarrow stories, he might very well have put the pieces together fairly quickly. 

But he didn’t, and he doesn’t, and so at first Thorin doesn’t recognize the tug in his soul for what it is. 

It’s restlessness, he decides, that is all. He has been restless plenty of times in his life, and that was _before_ he bore the responsibilities and frustrations of a king. And he knows how to cope with restlessness, even if it’s more difficult now to find the time in between lunches and council meetings and supervising the slow restoration of an entire kingdom. Crafting and working at the forges has always been an outlet which has served him well, the ache in his muscles and the satisfaction at the act of creation a perfectly suitable outlet for his restless heart. 

And it works just as well now too. For a time. 

“You do know you don’t need gifts to keep my affection, right?” Bilbo teases gently, even as he reverently accepts an elegant bracelet, the fruit of this evening’s labor at the forges. “We have been married barely a year, hardly time enough for me to grow so ill of your presence that I must again be courted and won back with lovely baubles.” 

Thorin smiles, pressing a tender kiss to his consort’s forehead, right beneath the twining metal oak branches of the crown that rests among his golden curls. “Must I have a reason to shower you with all the love you deserve? Clearly I need to do it more often, if you’ve grown so cynical and suspicious.” 

Bilbo snorts quietly. “As though I haven’t always been somewhat cynical and suspicious.” His eyes soften, mirth fading slightly from the curve of his lips as he lifts a hand, trailing a thumb across the dark circles the dwarven king knows must be forming beneath his eyes. “And right now I suspect any more often and you’ll drop asleep in the middle of the next dreadfully dull council meeting you have to sit in and cause some sort of diplomatic incident.” 

Thorin tilts his head into the soft palm of his hand. “Ach, like they’d even notice. They’re too busy bickering among themselves anyway.”

Bilbo merely hums, studying him with those too-keen eyes that, were Thorin not a king, would make him shift uncomfortably where he stands. But he demands no answers, only runs his fingers along the marriage braid that hangs beside the dwarf’s ear. “You know I’ll listen if you want to tell me what’s really going on. Valar knows you’ve listened to me complain about even the most trivial of matters often enough.”

Thorin sighs, shoulders slumping slightly, helpless as always in the face of his husband’s easy understanding and unconditional affection. “There’s little to tell, I’m afraid,” he murmurs. “I have no more knowledge of why I’m so frustrated than you do.”

The hobbit clucks his tongue lightly, taking his hands and leading him without resistance towards the very large and ornate bed which sits in the middle of their room. Thorin allows himself to be manhandled out of his clothes and under the covers, snorting quietly to himself at his husband’s exceptionally hobbitish way of dealing with distress as Bilbo wriggles in with him, curling up against his side. “I’m not ill, Kurdel,” he says, deeply amused. “I hardly need to be confined to bed rest.”

Bilbo sniffs indignantly. “If you were ill, I’d hardly be in bed with you, now would I? I can’t afford to fall ill as well, who would run the kingdom in your absence? Fíli? I think not.”

“How practical of you,” Thorin says drily. 

Bilbo ignores him. “And besides, ill or not, some bed rest would do you good. If it weren’t for the kingdom, I’d be perfectly happy to bundle you in a quilt and force you into taking a vacation, but if I can’t do that I _will_ at least see to it that you get a good night’s sleep. My father always did say a nap is the first action one should take when you’re not sure what else to do, and I stand by that.”

“Well,” Thorin rumbles, wrapping his arms around his beloved. “Far be it from me to question the wisdom of the Bagginses. And after all, you are a very clever burglar,” he murmurs, and Bilbo grins up at him. 

“Like I need you to tell me that,” he answers, smile slightly smug, and Thorin takes it as the challenge that it is. 

He leans down to capture those fine lips with his own, quickly wiping any smugness right off of them. 

Bilbo gives a soft moan, and Thorin smiles against him, a little smug himself. 

“Shut up,” Bilbo mumbles. “You’ve won nothing, this is just because the bracelet you gave me was lovely.”

“So your love _can_ be bought! And here I thought I’d married a man of character,” Thorin laughs, not bothering to defend himself as Bilbo smacks him in the shoulder. 

The hobbit has a familiar gleam in his eye now, slipping down further under the covers. “I’ll show _you_ character,” he says threateningly, and for all the earlier talk of rest, that proves to be quite the end of any conversation for that night. 

…

The itch grows stronger, and Thorin grows ever more on edge. 

Now, even working in the forges doesn’t seem to take the edge off, the work only frustrating him further as every piece he makes comes out unsatisfactory and _wrong_. 

It hardly helps that his duties still demand him, and he sits restlessly through what feels like an endless string of meetings, one after another without true rest. And the whole time, he _wants._

But for what, he has no clue. 

And worse, he _knows_ his increasingly foul mood is impacting those around him. He snaps at Fíli and Kíli. He’s crabby and short towards the company. The council members and guild representatives he meets with clearly pick up on it, no matter how he tries to temper himself, and in typical dwarf fashion they only buckle down and become as uncooperative as possible in response. 

The only person he hasn’t taken his frustration out on yet is Bilbo, and that is both a relief and a terror. The thought that he may, once more, be slipping away from himself and Bilbo could pay the price haunts him deeply, the fear seeping into the dark cracks of his mind when he lies awake at night.

And so he begins to find every excuse to keep his distance from the hobbit, to leave their chambers early and not come back till late. And very quickly, this only makes things worse. Yet even as he feels the absence in his chest like a stone, he cannot bring himself to seek his hobbit out. 

So he continues to avoid his beloved, and his frustration grows. 

Despite not giving the hobbit much of a chance to confront him about it, there’s no doubt in Thorin’s mind that Bilbo notices, and even less that he doesn’t take kindly to it. He’s at least somewhat protected during meetings, when Bilbo’s strict adherence to good manners saves him from confrontation. But in the rare moments where no one is demanding his attention, as king, there are unfortunately a limited number of places he can make himself scarce, a number made even slimmer by the fact that he’s hiding from the one who knows him better than perhaps anyone else in the whole mountain. Which means the forges are right out, along with almost all of his usual haunts. 

The evening his feet take him to the stone cutters’ workshop, it’s as much a surprise to him as it is the few workers left this late in the day. Though startled eyes dart to him as he slips deeper into this section of the mountain, he’s grateful to find that no one makes too much of a fuss over his presence, merely nodding respectfully as he passes. 

The farther he goes, surrounded by the soft light of the torches and the scattered sound of tools at work, the more an unexpected feeling of safety and contentment fills him, and for the first time in weeks he feels some of the tension between his shoulders release. 

It’s not often he works with stone, having far more practice with metal, but he knows the basics as well as any dwarf, and once he’s found a tucked-away corner and a spare chunk of marble he can work with as he pleases he settles in to work. He carves, no particular goal in mind, merely letting his frustrations drain away, the cold stone like a balm in his hands. 

Time slips by, he doesn’t know how long, and stone rises and dips in curves and waves beneath his hands. For the first time in Mahal knows how long, Thorin feels truly at peace. It doesn’t occur to him to wonder what he’s making. Every stroke of his hand feels instinctual, natural, like he knows precisely where it needs to land with no concern for how they come together. All thoughts have left him, and there is only him and the stone. 

It is probably hours before the peace is shattered by the sound of a tool dropped elsewhere in the hall, the metallic sound ringing and echoing against the stone walls. In an instant, the haze around him breaks, and the motion of his hand stutters to a stop. He blinks repeatedly, his eyes clearing, and the stonework in front of him begins to truly come into focus for the first time tonight. 

Let it never be said that Thorin Oakenshield is a stupid man. 

For all that it has taken him this long to understand, there is no denying the evidence that now sits before his eyes, and there is no arguing with the truth of the stone that rests atop the workbench, features without detail but clear in form. 

The _child_ that sits before him, waiting to be completed. 

_Oh,_ Thorin thinks. _Oh_. 

…

The statue (because for now, that is all it is, he reminds himself, even as he carries it with the utmost delicacy and care, held close to his chest) is hidden away in a cabinet of the chambers he uses for busywork, safe and unseen. A part of him aches to bring it back to the chambers he shares with Bilbo, to keep it safe in his home where it belongs, but he doesn’t want Bilbo to see it, not yet, for he will ask questions Thorin isn’t yet sure he knows how to answer. 

Or perhaps he’s simply afraid of what those answers will mean for them. 

The truth is that the very prospect that Bilbo may not be willing to take the final step to breathe life into the stone infant fills him with a heavy, icy dread, and Thorin can hardly bear the thought. They haven’t talked about this. Mahal damn him, _why_ didn’t Thorin talk to him about this?

Well, he knows why. Because Mahal’s blessing is a rare, rare thing, and the odds of them receiving it were so slim it never even crossed his mind to warn the hobbit that it may have been a possibility. Stone children are so rare they’re more legend than lore. There has never been one crafted within his lifetime. 

And yet...

Despite the odds, Mahal has blessed _them,_ given _them_ the gift of a stone child, a gift only ever given to souls so entwined and bonded they are nearly one. 

And he doesn’t know if that knowledge, the warmth that bubbles in his heart when he thinks about it, makes the dread that hangs low in his gut better or worse. 

What if this is not what Bilbo wants?

If he rejects this gift? 

For all that Erebor may have become his home, he isn’t a dwarf. The statue in Thorin’s cabinet holds no natural sacredness to him, any more than the golden murals that once covered the royal chambers where they now reside, before Thorin had them stripped out for both of their sanity. By all rights, he is under no obligation to accept the child he never knew was even a possibility. 

If... if he does reject this, Thorin will not force it. Of course he won’t, he wouldn’t do that, not to Bilbo _or_ the child. 

The thought still makes his heart twist painfully. 

But. Let it never be said that Thorin Oakenshield is a coward. 

This time, he allows his feet to carry him where he truly wants to go, taking him automatically through the haze of swirling thoughts and emotions in his head to the doors of the chambers he and Bilbo share. The heavy doors glide open at his touch, and he enters the room, only dimly lit by the fire. 

He can physically feel the tension begin to drain from his body when he spots Bilbo, curled up in the armchair beside the dying fire, but a seed of guilt replaces it. He knows without needing to ask that his husband fell asleep waiting for him, as he likely has more than once these past couple of weeks, concerned and alone. He quietly takes off his boots by the door, abandoning them on the floor before padding over to the chair and the sleeping hobbit folded awkwardly within it.

There, he pauses for a long moment, just watching the soft rise and fall of his chest, the peaceful expression sleep gives him which he so rarely gets to wear in his day-to-day life anymore. The embers cast him in golden light, soft and glowing like a sunset on the snowy peaks, and Thorin wonders how it is even possible for his heart to contain the cavernous adoration and tenderness he feels within him.

Whatever happens, he vows, he will not ever again forget to be grateful to Mahal for what he has, for surely this alone is more than any creature in Arda deserves, except perhaps the sleeping hobbit whose slumber he knows he must disturb. 

Regretfully, he reaches out to card his fingers through the golden curls. “Khajimel,” he murmurs. “You’ll hurt your neck, sleeping like that.”

Bilbo stirs, squinting sleepily and humming in response. “Th’rin?” He says groggily, and blinks, clearing the sleep from his eyes. 

Thorin smiles, unable to help himself, and Bilbo seems to wake up a bit, sleep melting away like fog to show the quiet intelligence that always shines in his eyes. The odd shadows of the fire turn his usually expressive face subtle. 

“You’ve been gone an awfully long while,” he says softly. “I was waiting.”

Thorin hums, threading their fingers together and raising their linked hands to press a kiss to the back of Bilbo’s hand. “I’m sorry to have kept you up,” he murmurs, in a voice so gentle it hardly breaks the quiet. 

His lips curve up slightly in response, a question still lingering in his eyes. 

And Thorin may not be able to give him all the answers he deserves yet, but he knows where he can start. “Come to bed,” the king murmurs. “Let’s both get some rest.”

Something in Bilbo’s posture relaxes, relief passing like a shadow across his face, and he smiles, soft and bright. He takes Thorin’s hand, allowing him to pull him to his feet with a groan. He winces as his neck cracks, looking mildly sheepish. “The bed gets cold when you’re not here.”

“I’ll stoke the fire before we sleep,” Thorin says, eager to help make up for his absence, but Bilbo merely tucks himself under the taller man’s arm, closing what little distance remained between them. 

“Damn the fire, I’ve got you. Now come get under the covers, you’re not doing any good just standing there.” 

And who is Thorin to deny such a request? 

They crawl together into bed, Bilbo tucking in the covers around them, and Thorin flashes back to another night not so very long ago, even if it feels like months. He tangles their fingers together beneath the covers, listening to his husband’s soft breaths in the darkness where he lays against his chest. 

“Thorin?” he whispers, after several quiet minutes. 

“Yes, amrâlimê?”

“Will you still be here in the morning?”

Thorin brings their interlocked hands up, pressing them between their two hearts where they lie ribcage to ribcage. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” he promises. 

…

From then on, he is there in their chambers every night when it is time to go to sleep, and there every morning when Bilbo wakes up, smiling that lovely sleepy smile that he always does when he sees Thorin beside him. 

And in the hours in between, he works. 

He carves with infinite patience and care, letting the stone guide his hands into the shape it wants to be. Slowly, day by day, night by night, features begin to emerge from the stone, and a child takes shape. Curly hair that falls in ringlets around her ears, wide eyes and a large nose that he can tell will be very handsome someday. 

And other details, ones he barely even notices he’s creating until they’re finished, like her large feet and the dainty curls of hair on her toes. 

It’s just after midnight, nearly two months after he began working, when his hand finally slips down to rest beside him on his desk, limp and sore, and he realizes there is no more to be done. 

It’s finished. _She’s_ finished. 

There’s no more putting off what he needs to do. 

… 

For as much as he almost wishes he could avoid it, now that he’s reached this point, he knows he can’t possibly bring himself to wait for morning to come, for Bilbo to wake up. He doesn’t put the statue away this time, merely covers it with his cloak, locks the door behind him, and hurries through the corridors back to their chambers. He shakes his husband awake without hesitation.

Bilbo blinks blearily up at him, confused and annoyed. “Thorin, what - ?” 

“Bilbo,” he whispers. “ zyungâl.”

And there must be something in his voice or his face, because the annoyance disappears, replaced by concern. “What’s going on?” 

Thorin tugs on his hand, urging him out of bed. “Come. I need to show you something.”

Bilbo, ever trusting and loyal, follows without question. 

He leads him through the quiet halls to his study, glancing furtively about to make sure no one else is near. He unlocks the door, pushing Bilbo lightly through in front of him. He locks the door once more behind them, and when he turns around, Bilbo is frowning at him, concern having become deep worry. 

“Thorin, I need you to talk to me, you’re scaring me. Has something happened?”

“No. Well, yes, but nothing bad. I’m hoping you don’t think it’s bad. Although, of course I will not hold it against you if - if you do feel that it’s not a good thing, Kurdel, I will respect that, and I would never do anything to pressure you into a decision you’re not comfortable with -”

“ _Thorin,_ ” Bilbo interrupts at last, brow still furrowed but the worst of the fear faded. “Why don’t you show me what it is that you wanted to show me?” he continues, a little more softly. 

Thorin nods, not trusting himself to open his mouth again. He takes Bilbo’s hand, as much for his own reassurance as anything else, and leads him over to the oak desk, where his coat still obscures the shape of the statue. 

He doesn’t give himself a beat to steel himself, afraid his courage will falter. He lifts the cloak from the stone without hesitation, heartbeat stuttering as the pale marble is revealed to the candlelight. 

Even though he knows, logically, that Bilbo won’t understand what he’s looking at, has no reason to have any strong reaction just to seeing the statue, he still holds his breath, and it still feels a touch anti-climatic when Bilbo only looks slightly puzzled. 

He reaches out to delicately trace a finger over the carefully etched curls. “It’s beautiful,” he murmurs hesitantly. His brow is furrowed, and he opens his mouth, then closes it again. Thorin can tell he’s searching for the words to politely ask what was so important about this that he had to be dragged out of bed to see it. “Is this... what you’ve been working on?” His voice is careful, hesitant. 

Thorin reaches for the part of himself he reserves for matters of diplomacy, the calm and steady mask of stone. “There’s something I haven’t told you,” he tells him. 

Surprisingly, Bilbo’s face merely grows more determined, spine straightening like he’s steeling himself. “If this is the gold sickness returning, Thorin, I swear to you, we _will_ fight it,” he says fiercely. 

“No, my heart, no, there is nothing wrong with me, I swear it,” he hastens to reassure him, shaking his head vigorously. He takes a deep breath. “But... it does have to do with a sort of magic.” 

Bilbo frowns. “What _sort_ of magic?” 

“A sort of magic I ought to have told you about far earlier,” he says, voice deadpan with the effort of keeping it from shaking. “But... well, I didn’t think it was something which was going to _matter._ ” 

“Okay,” Bilbo says gently, clearly picking up on his anxiousness. “Let's focus on the now. How does this… magic connect to this statue?”

“It’s our child,” he blurts out.

Bilbo blinks. Whatever he’d been expecting, that clearly hadn’t been it. “Sorry?” 

“It’s... It’s a dwarf thing,” Thorin says, somewhat uncertainly. “She’s our child. I carved her.” 

“She’s- Thorin, _what?_ ” 

“It’s not _common,_ ” he answers defensively, and Bilbo seems to recognize his growing distress because he reaches out to clasp his hands, and Thorin draws strength from that, taking a deep, stabilizing breath. “Mahal… Mahal gave us a gift, Bilbo,” he says, carefully. “A very rare gift. It’s… known, to our people, but exceedingly rare. No stone child has been born within my lifetime, in fact.”

Bilbo’s eyes are wide, flicking back and forth between Thorin’s face and the statue, seemingly unable to look away from it for long. “And… when you say born…”

“I mean given life. A beating heart, a mind, a soul,” he croaks, heart in his throat, willing his husband to believe what he’s telling him. “Turned to flesh from stone.”

Bilbo squeezes his fingers, almost reflexively. Otherwise, he has gone so still Thorin isn’t certain he’s even still breathing. “She’ll be a real child?” 

“She can be,” he whispers reverently. “If you want her to be.” 

“How?” Bilbo whispers back. 

“They’re Mahal’s gift to us, an... acknowledgment, of our strongest bonds.” He looks down at their interlocked fingers, and despite himself, despite the vital importance of this conversation, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips against his will. “They’re... _only_ given to those with the strongest bonds. The deepest loves,” he adds quietly. 

Bilbo tightens his fingers until the dwarven King looks up and meets his eyes. When he does, they’re warm, crinkled at the edges. “I mean,” he says, just as softly, “how do we make her be?” 

Thorin freezes, breath catching in his throat. “Bilbo,” he says roughly, looking deep into his eyes, searching. “Is this... is this something you want? With me?”

Bilbo smiles radiantly, reaching up to cup his cheek in his hand. “Were you truly afraid I wouldn’t?”

Thorin leans into his soft palm, fingers tracing the delicate tendons of his wrist. “The fact that you are with me at all, that I have been given the treasure that is being able to hear your voice and touch your skin every day of my life, that I may wake up beside you and be allowed to share my life with you is already far more than any man or king deserves. I do not take it for granted, and I would never be so foolish as to expect more.” 

Bilbo laughs like the chimes of bells, and his eyes shine wetly. “Thorin. You ridiculous man, you beautiful king. This is no sacrifice at all. This is... this is something I never dared to dream we would be able to share. Thorin, there’s... there’s absolutely nothing that would make me happier than being able to have a family with you.” 

Thorin doesn’t know what to say, what he _can_ say, a tangled ball of emotion and joy and hope and love at the back of his throat, so he says it the only way he can, pulling his husband close and kissing him deeply, hoping he can understand all the affection he doesn’t know how else to share. 

Finally, he recovers himself enough to pull away. Still holding his hand, he turns them both to face the carving properly. He reaches out, touching one of the braids in her curly hair, where Bilbo notices for the first time that there’s a gap in the braid, a place where a lock of hair should be but isn’t. “It’s the only piece missing,” he tells him, voice a little hoarse is with emotion. “I... she can’t be finished by myself alone.” He looks down at the hobbit, and the hobbit looks back up at him. 

And then, Bilbo is crushing their lips together. 

He pulls back, eyes glinting with determination, and there’s the soft sound of the dagger Thorin gave him as an engagement present being drawn from its sheath. Without a second’s hesitation, he raises the dagger to his head, slicing a curl of hair neatly off. He holds it out in his hand, and Thorin can’t help reaching out to smooth the other curls around the gap out to cover it. 

Bilbo is smiling, a tiny, bright smile. 

He closes his hand around the curl, the hair cradled between their two palms. 

For a long, almost ceremonial moment, they just stand there quietly, hands joined. Then, as one, they draw apart, turning to the statue. Bilbo reaches out, glancing at Thorin for confirmation as he slips the lock of hair into the gap in the stone. It fits perfectly, the coppery golden hair curling in such a way it’s as though it had grown there all along. 

Part of Thorin expected to feel something when the hair slips into place, a flare of warmth or spark of electricity. But instead, he feels settled, as though a piece of himself has just fallen into place as well. 

They stand there, hands linked, as the slow change begins to come over the statue. 

It starts with the lock of hair. Around it, the stone hair begins to darken, turning to soft black curls. The change spreads, slow but steady. Soon, the entire braid is black, then the rest of her hair. Her cheeks turn pale, then rosy. The delicate little shells of her fingernails turn pink and white at the edges. Eyelashes, too fine and thin to possibly carve, form on her eyelids. 

It takes several hours, but their attention never wavers. At last, the grey has all faded, indetectable. Her cheeks are rosy, hair black as obsidian except for a single golden lock in her braid. 

Her eyelids flutter. 

…

“Briar, that is quite enough of _that,_ ” Bilbo says firmly, plucking the spoon from his daughter’s hand. 

She seems entirely undisturbed, laughing merrily at the blob of mashed potatoes stuck to the front of Dwalin’s shirt across the table. The dwarf also seems quite undisturbed, smiling at her with that besotted look that every one of the company gets when interacting with the little princess. “The lass could be an archer someday, with aim like that!” he booms, grinning. 

“Dwalin, if I find out any time in the next few years that you’ve made her a toddler-sized bow, _I’m_ going to be the first one testing it and you’re going to be the target,” Bilbo says, tone light as he smiles at his daughter, wiping a stray glob of potato from the corner of her mouth. 

Briar points down the table at Kíli, spitting a bit of mashed potato as she does so. “Bo!” She says brightly. 

“That’s right!” Kíli replies enthusiastically. “I do have a bow!”

“Bo!” She repeats, sounding proud. 

“If you’re not careful, you might find yourself with a new nickname,” Thorin says, deeply amused. 

“Hobbit faunts have a rhyme about a shepherd named Bo,” Bilbo adds. “She’s very bad at her job.”

Fíli looks up from his dinner, suddenly looking delighted. “I think Bo’s an _excellent_ nickname!” 

Kíli suddenly looks slightly horrified. “Kíli,” he says urgently to Briar. “I’m _Kíli._ ” 

“Bo,” she says serenely, dropping a green bean on Thorin’s lap. 

Bilbo gives him an exasperated look. “Of all the ways she could take after you, she had to get your hatred of vegetables.” 

“Ah, but she’s got your opinionated nature,” Thorin says fondly, scooping her up out of the carved high chair Bofur had made for her to put her on his lap. He puts her plate in front of them, bouncing her lightly on his knee as he picks up the fork and gets to work trying to persuade her to eat her food instead of stick it to various members of the Company. 

He’s assisted by Nori, who’s started making funny faces at her from across the table. As soon as she opens her mouth to laugh, he quickly feeds her a green bean while she’s too entertained to protest. 

Bilbo is smiling gently at him, warmth and affection written across every line of his face.

“What?” Thorin murmurs, voice low and warm beneath the hum and chatter of the company’s voices all around them. 

Bilbo’s smile grows. “You have a green bean in your beard.” 

“Fortunately, green suits me very well,” Thorin responds without missing a beat. 

“It really does,” Bilbo murmurs. Thorin reaches out to him, and their hands squeeze beneath the table. 

“Uncles, would you _please_ tell Dwalin I would be great at taking care of sheep?” Kíli’s voice breaks in. 

“Aye, I suppose you do about have the brains of one,” Dwalin snickers, at the same time as Bilbo’s exasperated “Dwalin, would you stop bullying the lad?” 

Thorin hurriedly turns back to feeding their daughter, hiding his grin, only to find her nodding off against his chest, her little eyelids fluttering shut as she yawns, rubbing a tiny fist against her eyes. 

There’s no mistaking the warmth in his chest for what it is as he kisses the top of her head, setting the fork back down as she curls into his shoulder. 

For the first time in Thorin’s life, surrounded by his Company, his _family,_ husband at his side and daughter in his arms, all is as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all liked it!! I have a sequel already semi-planned, so we'll see how that goes, but in any case I don't think I'm done with this verse yet. If you have any prompts or follow-up ideas you'd like to see, throw 'em out there in the comments, I'd love to hear them! Or you can hit me up on [tumblr](https://sunflowersandink.tumblr.com/) anytime, for any reason :D 
> 
> Comments and kudos strongly encouraged, thank you for reading!! <3


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